poet

Mourning: a Poem

A prompt from Maureen Thorson.

“Write your own meditation on grief, with a middle section in which a question is repeated with different answers given.”

We dressed our mirrors in black,
hiding our reflections from even ourselves.
Our songs turn to lamentations,
our eyes wet with tears.

How do you mourn your dead?
You speak their name
so they will not be forgotten.

How do you mourn your dead?
You find their symbolic language
and look for them
every day.

How do you mourn your dead?
You don’t mourn the loss.
You celebrate the life they led.
You wear colors so bright
we look like confetti.
You dance under a full moon
to songs that feel like worship.

We visit cemeteries
and talk to ghosts,
whisper prayers to candles.

How do you mourn your dead?
We celebrate the days we shared
and forget the ugly rot of death.

Isabelle Palerma

Raw: a Poem

Slice through the heart of me
and wonder why I feel so raw.
There’s bleeding somewhere,
and yet I’m still searching for the cut.
I’ll seek out the scars,
but I didn’t know I was the one
clinging to the knife.

Isabelle Palerma

Lover, Lover: a Poem

A prompt from Maureen Thorson.

“In your poem for today, use a simple phrase repeatedly, and then make statements that invert or contradict that phrase.”

I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I transcribed messages from Cupid
onto your skin in lazy patterns.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I wrote you sonnets for each season
your heart quivered.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I drank of the light that glimmered
from your gazes.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I followed the pattern of your gait
and translated it into a message
only Morse himself could understand.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I took lessons in elocution,
so I could speak your name
in the most divine way.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I tasted the nectar of your cologne
to better ache for your touch
when you weren’t near.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I memorized poems to whisper
into the moonlight to send off
so you could still hear me –
even when I wasn’t near.
I wasn’t a lover; I was in love.
I always did love you, even before
the words cascaded from my lips.

Isabelle Palerma

Restored Sight/Rediscovery: a Poem

A prompt from a.r. rogers:

“If I gave in to my free will today…”

It’s easy to think someone else
is the master of our circumstances –
a puppeteer
and we’re marionettes, strings tugged on.
But if I were in charge
of my own strings for a change,
perhaps I would cross a few things off
my list – not my to-do list,
but my bucket list.

Instead of going grocery shopping,
I’d go zip lining in the jungle.
Instead of writing poetry in my room,
I’d be performing it on a stage.
Instead of being a coward,
I’d be brave.
Instead of loving,
I’d make love in the rain.

I never wished to be hollow.
I never wished to be empty.
& yet, somewhere along the way,
I lost sight of free will, and I gave my keys
to a different master.
Somewhere along the way, I surrendered
myself and nobody found the heart
to tell me
I could be anything I want.
I just need to rediscover my free will.

This is the beginning of restored sight.
The start of a rediscovery.

I’m giving in to my free will today.

Isabelle Palerma

Unmoored: a Poem

A prompt from Maureen Thorson.

“Write your own poem in which you recount a childhood memory. Try to incorporate a sense of how that experience indicated to you, even then, something about the person you’d grow up to be.”

A date etched into my heart as though
carved into glass.
My eyes were stained with tears, and
I turned to a notebook,
searching for answers about
why God robbed the world of ordinary men
who did their best to love.
I bled ink onto the page as I struggled
for truth
the night no one remembered as
a young lost princess became unmoored.